Christmas Eve
by MelanieMM
Summary: The day before Christmas finds Clark unable to deal with loss and just when he thought not another thing could possibly go wrong, he finds comfort in the only place he can.


Christmas Eve 

Chloe pressed a warm mug of cocoa into Clark's hand, who then slammed it down his throat, despite the billows of steam rising off the top. A sharp jab to his side let him know that normal people did not down steaming hot liquids in one gulp. He placed the cup on his lap, struggling not to break the delicate porcelain handle, as his fingers gripped it with increasing tension.

This is not where he wanted to be tonight, or any night. But everyone, including his mother who would definitely hear what he thought of her betrayal later, insisted he go out; that'd he'd soon become the kind of a recluse small children told scary stories about, if the scope of his travels didn't venture beyond the family farm soon.

So there he sat, packed tightly into a room of co-ed bodies, who laughed too loudly, and smiled too broadly, cheering occasionally at nothing more exciting than some football player's ability to chug a gallon of beer in one swig. Their levity served only as a sharp contrast to Clark's own dark mood. He twisted the mug around in his palms, quietly daring himself to take his eyes off his worn shoes.

"Clark…"

He could hear the exasperation in her voice. He glanced sideways, noticing her worried expression and pulled his mouth into a small smile. Chloe sighed at his effort to ease her worries and playfully ruffled his hair. His smile broadened but he shook his head sadly.

"I told you this was a bad idea.."

"Well I had to try didn't I? And besides you look so nice in your red shirt, I couldn't just let you stay home."

Clark looked down at the alarmingly red button down shirt Chloe somehow found lurking in the back of his closet. Not even the white tee peaking above the collar could tame its intensity. Thank goodness you were allowed to wear obscenely bright colors during the holidays.

"Yeah, remind me never to let you into my closet again. Look, you don't have to  
baby-sit me, go dance, chug beer or something, I'll be fine."

Chloe looked at him indignantly, "I don't chug beer."

Clark merely shrugged.

"I came here with you, and I want you to have a good time. At least try ok? Get up and move around..anything."

He looked her directly in the eyes and it always caught her off-guard to see the sadness there that nothing seemed to be able to shake.

"I wouldn't know where to begin. I'm sorry Chloe…just give me a few minutes ok."

She nodded, hesitantly getting up and moving towards the opposite side of the room. She glanced back once, but Clark waved her on, finally just sinking back into the lumpy sofa.

He was certain the glittering holly hanging overhead was mocking him, laughing in his face at the insanity of him sitting there trying to appear "merry". He didn't feel merry or much of anything except hollow these days. Everyone said it was time for him to take that first step forward, to move beyond the grief. But how? Life hadn't prepared him for this. Not even the cavalcade of animal deaths –very much a part of life growing up on a farm, could prepare him for the death of the man he treasured most in this world—his father.

And true to his character, his death had been quick and to the point, without much fanfare. He collapsed just outside the barn, while fixing the forever broken tractor for the twelfth time that week. Clark had heard his collapse, had heard his gasp for air and the very last beat of his heart.

He knew he was dead before he reached his side. And the outrage that ripped through him in that moment, threatened to tear him in two. He raged at not being able to look into his father's eyes one last time, usually so full of warmth and love, and at not hearing one last utter of sage advice before he was taken away from him forever.

Clark remembered actually feeling the chill of the ground through his usually impenetrable flesh. He shuddered remembering the icy feeling traveling up his legs, and gripping his heart. He had stayed there a long time, holding his father in his arms, feeling that last bit of life leave his body. He waited on calling for his mother; he wanted to give her a few more moments in a world where she still had a husband by her side. But it was no use, she always knew when something was wrong, and her anguished scream would echo in his head forever.

He took another sip of the now tepid cocoa. Tasting the awful grittiness from the instant mix, he put the cup aside, wishing for his mother's homemade hot chocolate, and the safety of his own home. He knew he'd lost the battle before the fight had even begun. He rose from the couch and went to find Chloe, hoping she wouldn't protest against his lame excuses for making a quick exit.

Clark trudged along Route 8 deliberately walking at a normal pace, completely obscured by the night. It had been several minutes since even a bird had passed, and he welcomed the solitude. Somehow, in the months following his father's death, isolation had been his only comfort. Away from all the sympathetic gazes, and his mother's weary eyes, all reminders of everything he couldn't control and everything he'd brought upon them. He pushed his palms against his eyes, wishing hard that he could stop torturing himself. He tried not to dwell on the clumsy conversation he had with Chloe before he left. She didn't take his leaving well, pulling him off to the side to tell him in hushed tones that she was _"really worried about him..they all were."_ He bristled even now at the thought of everyone whispering concern behind his back. He'd never been fragile, he'd always been strong and now everyone assumed he was fine porcelain teetering precariously on a shelf. How dare they think he would fall, and even if he fell, he couldn't break—he could never break.

He sighed heavily; no matter how infinite the silence, there was never peace; it was always thunderous inside his own head. Clark pushed back against the wind and sped home, hoping the hum of the air rushing by him would drown out everything.

Martha Kent slammed her teacup down against the counter when she heard the familiar rattling of the windows, meaning her not so normal son had arrived home. She didn't have to glance at the clock to know it wasn't even ten o'clock, and her joint effort with Chloe to get him back to his old life had failed.

She watched him duck into the room sheepishly, and for a moment, she only wanted to fling her arms around him and tell him how everything would be fine, but coddling would do more harm than good right now, so she gathered her resolve, determined to be tough.

"What are you doing home already Clark?" she demanded.

Clark stopped, obviously not prepared for this new approach. "I…I just..I wasn't having a good time so I left."

"And I suppose you actually tried?"

"I tried I swear, I mean I went didn't I? And I wore this shirt and even held a cup of cocoa." That sounded lame even to him, but he really just wanted to fall into his bed waiting for him upstairs.

No inanimate object in the kitchen seemed safe tonight as she threw the dish towel next to the tea cup in frustration.

"Clark, this can't go on. I don't want you moping around this house anymore."

He avoided her eyes, "I'm not moping."

"You are, only its worse. Its like you've taken all this on yourself, and you're disappearing Clark…I can't lose you too."

He looked at her in alarm. "I'm not disappearing Mom, you're not losing me."

She looked at him with a pleading in her eyes he hadn't seen before. "You are honey. You're building these walls around yourself and I don't know how to reach you anymore, and I need you, I need something to be left of the life we had with your father, and if you're not here anymore…I'm scared Clark..so please, try."

He felt his heart drop into his abdomen, but he faced her soberly, giving her a hug as he nodded against her shoulder. He mumbled 'goodnight' and slipped upstairs.

He sank into his mattress the minute he entered his room. The weight of his mother's admission pressed down on him, squeezing his chest until he felt like he couldn't breathe. When would he stop leaving misery in his wake? He buried his head in the pillow wishing the tears would come so he'd find some release, but they never did, they hadn't come since the day his father died in his arms.

Clark often wondered what would happen if he stayed awake for days on end. Would he collapse from exhaustion, or would his invulnerability stop that from happening? But judging by the fact that he'd overslept for the third time this week, he doubted he'd ever get a chance to test out his theory.

With his day getting off to such a slow start, he tried his best to make up for lost time all day. But being extraordinarily fast didn't matter when you had produce to deliver and feed runs to make. He glanced at his watch; he had less than half an hour to make it to the jewelry store on time. He pressed his foot harder on the gas. He mentally calculated all the cash in the wallet. He'd been saving for weeks, and only after getting his final paycheck from his job at the campus store, did he finally have enough to get his mother the perfect Christmas Present.

His throat tightened remembering the day a few months back when he and his father were strolling along Main Street, and his Dad had slowed down when they approached Jacobson Jewelry Store to look in the window. He told him how his mother always lingered there, looking at the Victorian pendant necklace sitting nearby on the counter, and how he planned to save as much as he could manage by Christmas to buy it for her, to celebrate their 25th Christmas together.

His father died before he could accomplish that particular dream, and Clark wanted to do this for his mother—for both of them. The idea of seeing his mother's face when he gave her the necklace produced one of the few smiles he allowed himself lately, a smile that was quickly wiped off his face when he had to slam on the breaks to avoid hitting the man that had just run onto the road waving his arms wildly for him to stop.

Clark jumped out of the truck, suppressing the urge to grab the man and shake him for nearly ruining another truck. The man was obviously in trouble—his truck was tilted on its side, stuck in the thick mud of a trench along the side of the road. He was talking at him a mile a minute, and Clark only caught snatches of his frantic story. He sighed and placed a gentle hand on the man's shoulder to calm him, trying to ignore the soft ticking of his watch, telling him time was very precious.

Clark walked over and surveyed the damage. The left back wheel was completely submerged in the mud, and the right wheel was completely flat. One small flick of his wrist and the truck would be back on level ground, and he was certain he could fix the tire in under thirty seconds and be back on his way into town in less than a minute, but trying to explain how all that was possible would bring its own set of problems.

Clark really wished the man would stop gushing in gratitude.

"Thank you so much for stopping, I was just on my way home to Granville, when my tire went and I got the whole family waiting for me back there…and I can't tell you how much I appreciate this."

Clark just smiled, and waved his hand in dismissal. "Its no big deal really..now if you can just help be by grabbing the other end, I think we can get you back on the road and I can help you change the tire."

Clark hoped the man wouldn't pay attention as he effortlessly pushed the truck onto the road. Unfortunately, he must have moved the truck too swiftly and the man fell against him, grabbing hold of his waist to keep from slipping into the mud. Clark apologized profusely and immediately went to change his tire, refusing to accept any further assistance. Doing the job at normal human speed cost him dearly though, and by the time he finished he barely had ten minutes to get to the shop.

After making sure the man's truck was in full working order and refusing the cash he kept trying to hand him, Clark hopped back into his truck and sped towards Main Street.

He saw Mr. Jabobson hanging the 'Closed' sign in the window as he rounded the corner. He swung hastily into an empty space along the curb, almost tripping as he leapt out of the cab, and ran towards the shop. Mr. Jacobson saw his earnest plight and unlatched the lock, opening the door and beckoning him in with a warm smile. Clark expressed his gratitude and headed over to the necklace, still sitting in the same spot, glittering blue against the darkening windows.

Mr. Jacobson walked over to the necklace and carefully removed it from its stand.

"So, you're finally coming to collect your prize? I'm sure the lovely Miss Lang will love it."

Clark felt a small pang in his chest at the mention of Lana He smiled sadly.

"Oh..Lana and I broke up a while ago..this is for my mother."

Mr. Jacobson nodded with a small smile. "Well, I'm sure your mother will love it. If I remember correctly, she was always fond of it whenever she came in the shop to browse. Well, I certainly don't have to tell you the price of it now do I?"

Clark laughed, reaching for his wallet. "No, you definitely don't…" but, his hand only felt the flatness of his jean pocket. His eyes went wide and he frantically searched every pocket of his jeans and jacket.

"I'm..I'm sorry, I seem to have misplaced my wallet."

Clark's mind worked hard, trying to remember where he last had it. Then he remembered slipping it into his pocket as he climbed into the truck after his run to the feed store, which had been his last errand of the day. So the only place he could have lost it…Clark's face fell, and he felt his insides turn cold. He must have lost it when he helped the man push his truck out of the mud—or worse. He tried not to dwell too long on the moment the man nearly slipped into the mud. He slowly looked up to face Mr. Jacobson, who seemed to understand.

"Don't worry Clark, I'm open the day after Christmas, and I'm sure you're mother will understand. You'll find your wallet; I'm always misplacing things myself."

He just nodded, not entirely convinced. "I'm sorry you kept the shop open for nothing."

"Don't even think about it. I'll be here another hour or so cleaning up anyway. Well come back and see me on Monday, Merry Christmas Clark."

He walked back out into the street, snow had begun to fall. He knew it   
should be a beautiful, hopeful sight, but it only felt like the sky was falling down on top of him. He leaned against his truck, desperate to keep it together and determined to somehow salvage his father's wish. He drove back to the spot where he helped the man, and x-rayed the ground. Even as he scoured the ground, he knew he would find no trace of his wallet, and he knew the man, had stolen it. People often got desperate during the holidays, and he was certain the man had planned the entire incident, and Clark was gullible enough to fall for it.

The drive home was a long one, and Clark felt numb inside. The one thing he wanted to do for his mother, so she could feel a little bit of his father was with them this Christmas had all fallen apart because of his own stupidity.

The kitchen light was on as he pulled into the driveway, and he could already smell the fragrance of warm sugar wafting out of the window. As he walked into the kitchen he saw his mother was baking sugar cookies like she did every year on Christmas Eve, and soon it would be time for home made cider and egg nog…except it would just be the two of them.

He didn't know why the realization hit him so hard, it was if he finally knew his father was gone. He just stood there, frozen in the doorway.

Martha pulled the last tray of cookies out of oven and turned around. She was startled to see Clark standing in the doorway, and completely alarmed by the despondent look on her son's face.

"Clark.."

He looked up at her with watery eyes. "I tried Mom…I wanted it to be special…but I can't..I can't do everything, I just can't.."

She immediately went over to him. "Clark, what happened?"

"I wanted this Christmas to be special, I just wanted you to be happy..and now.."

She reached up and pulled him to her. "Clark, it will be special."

He shook his head. "He's not here Mom."

And it was if a dam broke. Everything he'd been holding back for months came pouring out of him, and if it hadn't been for his mother's strong arms holding him, he was sure he'd have collapsed to the floor. He'd been so strong for everyone; he had nothing left for himself. His veneer finally cracked and he sobbed against his mother's shoulder, clinging to her for dear life.

She smoothed his hair back, and ran her hand over his wet cheeks. "I'm sorry Clark..I always ask too much of you, I'm so sorry."

She held her son in her arms, letting him finally grieve for his father, until he was too tired to cry anymore. She led him over to the couch, and covered him with his red blanket and she quietly sat watching the lights from the Christmas tree dance across his face as he slept.

Christmas morning felt like awakening to a new life for Clark. After he'd slept under the watchful eye of his mother, he'd snuck out into the barn and worked tirelessly on carving a picture frame out of scraps of wood. In the frame he placed one of the last pictures they'd taken together as a family, on his graduation day. They stood in front of the house, Clark in his cap and gown, both of them smiling so proudly, with an arm around him. That day had started out with so much promise and hope, and it had changed the lives of everyone around them forever. But he wanted to remember that moment, a reminder that even in tragedy there is hope. The look on all their faces in the photo summed up them as a family for Clark, and they would always be that family, because his mother was right—his father was never really gone. The love and strength he felt growing up in that home would always endure.

They had their traditional Christmas breakfast of pumpkin pancakes and buttermilk biscuits, and Clark had extra eggs for his Dad. He gave his mother the framed picture for Christmas, and he knew when he saw her face, that it was the better than the necklace could have ever been. And for the first time since his father died, he and his mother told stories about him and laughed and smiled at the memories. It was one of the best Christmas days they'd ever had.

The end 


End file.
